


Who to Himself Lives Not Alone

by Damkianna



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Break Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protectiveness, Reconciliation, Rescue, Surprise Kissing, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: "Why, Comrade Jackson, this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year. Where did you come from?"Mike looked up as Psmith stepped into the room, and with his good hand put down the paper he had been reading. "Hullo, Psmith. We came in this morning for a match," he said, and waited to see what Psmith would make of him.(Or: on his return to New York for the Brooklyn cricket match, Mike is injured. He thinks it was an accident; Psmith doesn't. And Psmith will do whatever is necessary to make sure nothing else happens to Mike—even if Mike would rather he didn't. AU starting from Chapter XXIV ofPsmith, Journalist.)
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 22
Kudos: 35
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	Who to Himself Lives Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> Please enjoy this pile of Psmith forcing distance on Mike, h/c, and _Psmith, Journalist_ but with more pining, id, and rescues, egelantier, and I hope you've had a fantastic F5K! :D
> 
> This borrows a couple lines of dialogue in the opening scene directly from the text of _Psmith, Journalist_ , but diverges pretty much immediately. Thank you a million and one times to aurilly for the wonderfully helpful beta job! YOU MADE IT SO MUCH BETTER AND I'M SO GRATEFUL. ♥ All remaining errors and awkward lumps are mine and mine alone!
> 
>  _So far immortal he has grown_   
> _who to himself lives not alone,_   
> _ages of darkness he will trace_   
> _to view again a single face ..._
> 
> —from "[Not Alone](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=21165)" by M. M. Chase

"Why, Comrade Jackson, this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year. Where did you come from?"

Mike looked up as Psmith stepped into the room, and with his good hand put down the paper he had been reading. "Hullo, Psmith. We came in this morning for a match," he said, and waited to see what Psmith would make of him.

It did not take long. Psmith regarded Mike benevolently through his eye-glass. And then his gaze caught upon Mike's bad arm, upon the clean white bandage there, and sharpened, and he tilted his head.

"The whims of Fate are seldom kind, and not to be trifled with—a lesson that is, perhaps, unnecessary to articulate to a student who has evidently suffered the learning of it directly. I see its marks upon your brow, Comrade Jackson."

"And here I thought they were on my wrist," said Mike.

"And on your wrist," allowed Psmith graciously. "What has befallen you? An errant bat? A misaimed bowl? Spare no detail, however harrowing; I must know all."

"Just rotten luck, really," said Mike, with hard-won steadiness.

He had not been able to meet the team doctor's assessment, earlier that morning, with as much equanimity. It could not help but be a hardship for Mike to have cricket taken from him, however temporarily, and the sting had only been worsened by what seemed to him to be the sheer whimsical cruelty of Lady Luck. He had felt insult heaped upon injury. If he had done something foolish, perceived the rest of his cricket matches for the foreseeable future hanging in the balance and chosen to gamble them, and lost—there could have been no cause for complaint, then. He would have borne it with grim composure, understanding that the fault was his.

But that had not been the case. And, far worse than the sprain itself, Mike had felt the oppressive weight of bitter injustice settle on his shoulders.

Still, Mike was not of a naturally melancholy temperament, and had been granted more than the usual helping of practical good sense. He had reconciled himself to the reality of his position. It had occurred to him that chance, however unkind it might have been to him in certain respects, had also deigned to deposit several minor mercies in his lap. The team had been on their way to a match in Brooklyn, when the event took place; therefore, in this dark hour, he found himself returned to New York, where he was not without friends—where he was not without Psmith. He had grasped with some gratitude that he might as easily have been in Philadelphia, or Atlanta, when this misfortune befell him, and that he would then have had to undertake a long, unpleasant journey in solitude before he could find comfort in Psmith's company.

"We got in early to-day. There was a bit of a crowd in the station." A crowd whose activity, Mike felt no need to point out, had not been calmed by the addition of an entire cricket team, jostling and shouting to one another and attempting to secure their luggage as it was unloaded from the train. "Somebody called to me, and I turned round to look, and just then some chap knocked into me. I fell. Almost went off the platform entirely," admitted Mike.

He expected Psmith to have some choice words to utter on the nature of misfortune. One of his quotations, or perhaps a suggestion that much the same thing had once happened to Napoleon.

He did not expect Psmith to stand very still, and look at him silently for a long moment.

"Forgive me, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith at last. "I must insist on some minor points of clarification. Someone called your name?"

"Yes," said Mike, though he could not see what that had to do with anything.

"And some chap knocked into you," recited Psmith. "I don't suppose you find yourself able to furnish a description of the unfortunate maladroit?"

Mike thought back. "Not anything particular. I wasn't facing him. I think he had a hat on, and a dark coat. But I only caught a glimpse, right as I was falling."

"And," said Psmith, very evenly, "you almost went off the platform entirely."

"I was right at the edge, that's all. Look, Psmith, what's the matter?"

It was an odd and unfamiliar thing to have to say to Psmith. Mike felt undeniably conscious of it. Psmith was unflappable—relentlessly so. In the past, Mike had occasionally found himself moved to wish otherwise, though he always regretted the impulse later for its pettiness; it was simply that it had, on occasion, felt like a bit much, to be in distress oneself and face Psmith in all his serene aplomb.

"I must surmise it is too much to hope that the number of fine, stout gentlemen among your teammates who are aware of our acquaintance is limited," murmured Psmith, as one speaking to himself rather than to any nearby him.

"I'd say so," said Mike. "You do rather make an impression on a chap," he added, and then felt himself flush.

Psmith did not seem to notice; Mike observed this fact with no small measure of gratitude, and thought no more about it.

To Psmith, who was in possession of crucial facts that Mike was not, assessing the precise shade of Mike's reddened cheek might have been of some interest at any other time. At this particular moment, however, it could merit no attention, and he was not thinking about it at all. He was thinking of a great many other things instead. Namely, that it was entirely possible that other interested parties wishing to learn how and when Psmith had arrived in their city had succeeded, and that Psmith's association with the cricket team as a whole and with Mike Jackson as an individual might indeed have been noted. Mike had mentioned that his name had been called aloud, and that he had looked up to find the caller—had, perhaps, been identifiable by such a response, and had only then suffered what seemed increasingly unlikely to have been an accident at all.

Psmith knew Mike as well as anyone, and a great deal better than most. He understood that the sprained wrist in and of itself, and the consequently abrupt removal from the sphere of influence exerted by cricket, in which Mike had always felt at home, must weigh heavily on Mike's mind. By comparison, a purely abstracted, hypothetical fall could not occupy more than a moment's thought.

But the words _almost went off the platform entirely_ , for Psmith, could not be banished. They blared, relentless, in a larger and heftier typeface than any _Cosy Moments_ headline could ever achieve.

Psmith had always made it something of a point to foster ready and active imaginative powers. In New York, a train station is a busy and bustling place, even in the early hours of the morning. A noisy place. If Mike had fallen from the platform, and no one had seen it happen—if he had injured a great deal more than one wrist, tumbling from a height down onto solid steel tracks—it seemed plausible that a weak cry might have gone all too easily unheard. That a man who had struck his head or broken bones would not, unaided, be able to remount a train platform to safety. That a train, halted only temporarily to allow the de-boarding of a cricket team, might within minutes resume its motion. Only as much as may be expected of a train; and yet, picturing Mike lying injured upon the tracks beneath it, Psmith now perceived that ordinary turn of events as a demonstration of implacable and decidedly excessive force.

Mike had come to New York. The moment he had arrived, he had been identified, and had been set up to suffer what might have been a grim fate indeed, but for luck and the habitually steady stance of the experienced cricketer in a moment of action. Psmith was not at a loss to discern the likeliest cause of this sequence of events.

He could not tell Mike. That much was immediately clear. To present Mike with the situation in full and expect him to see that he must stay entirely out of it was impractical, to put it mildly. To ask him earnestly to do the same was wildly unlikely to have the desired effect, and indeed might only provoke the opposite. Mike had a sense of purpose which was nearly impossible to shift, once it had been set in its course. And, most importantly, where he saw a need, he intervened, and neither discomfort nor misfortune could dissuade him. It had been his habit for as long as Psmith had known him.

It was equally clear that Psmith must see the matter through. He could not give the thing up and turn away, could not pretend he had not seen what he had seen—could not pretend that it was acceptable after all that the tenements should be permitted to remain in their present condition. It was unfathomable. It could not be borne.

He had been firmly aware of the risks he must run in doing so. But he had not, until now, grasped that said risks might extend to Mike.

Comrade Windsor had been extracted from the thick of the proceedings already, imprisoned and therefore secure. Comrade Maloney knew his way about, and, moreover, could be removed to safety if necessary by the simple expedient of dismissing him for the day with some excuse or other.

But such measures would not cut it with Mike. Mike could not be sent away with a word, with a simple assurance that it would be for the best. Therefore, Psmith could not allow him to get wind of the matter. Not even the barest breath of it must disturb him. Under other circumstances, Psmith would not have hesitated to engage Mike as a companion for as long as possible, and to undertake some small adventure or another with Mike at his side. But now the cricket team would not swoop in and take Mike away again. Now Mike would not be spirited off safely to Massachusetts, or Florida, or one or another Carolina, within a day.

Now all that stood between Mike and grave danger was Psmith; and in that moment, Psmith did not see that that amounted to much at all.

All this passed through Psmith's mind as he looked at Mike.

He cleared his throat. "No important engagements to-day?"

"Not a thing. Not until the team's finished the rest of the tour."

"Luncheon, then," proclaimed Psmith. "I trust that you will be my guest, Comrade Jackson. A man who has suffered as you have deserves refreshment and relaxation. I insist."

Mike's spirits rose further, almost entirely recovered. This was precisely what had been wanted, precisely what he had hoped for in coming to avail himself of the hospitality of _Cosy Moments_.

"Have it your way," he agreed with a smile, and stood.

Calm waters prevailed, for a time.

Psmith had achieved some measure of familiarity with the area in which the administrative powers behind _Cosy Moments_ were ensconced. A short walk brought them to an establishment at which a comfortable luncheon could be obtained.

Mike almost wished the walk had been longer. It was a fine day. The farther they went, shoulder to shoulder in the sunshine, the farther off the train station felt. Even the sight of his own wrist, carefully immobilized in clean white wrapping, did not trouble him. All was well.

Lunch was purchased, and dug into with some enthusiasm. Mike remarked upon the contents of _Cosy Moments_ —for it had been a copy of the same that he had been reading to occupy himself before Psmith's arrival, and it had struck him as distinctly altered from its former self.

"Hmm?" said Psmith. "Oh, yes. This journalistic life is not one to be taken up lightly; but Comrade Windsor and I press on, in the hope of contributing in some modest part to the intellectual and emotional enrichment of our fellow men. But let us speak on other matters, Comrade Jackson. _Cosy Moments_ cannot be permitted to consume even my idle moments at luncheon, I forbid it."

Mike acquiesced readily.

The other topic that rose naturally to mind was, of course, cricket. Psmith, Mike reasoned, probably had not heard the team's results from their last several matches before returning to play in Brooklyn. Even if he had, there is a certain flavor provided by the personal reminiscences of one directly involved in the action that cannot be duplicated by reading a few numbers off a printed page. Mike offered these.

And it was as he did so that he became gradually conscious of a certain unprecedented source of difficulty.

Mike was not, on his own terms, loquacious. He was capable of a kind of eloquence, defined principally through a combination of simplicity, clarity, and enviable directness. But he was not verbose; he could not be called one of nature's born jawers. In the grip of embarrassment, discomfort, or high emotion, he was downright terse. He often felt a great deal more than he could say.

In all his acquaintance with Psmith up to this point, this fact had caused little strain. The opposite, if anything: it had generated harmony. Psmith _was_ verbose. Mike offered him silences, and he accepted them gladly and filled them to their brims. He reacted, he engaged. He made conversation, in the truest meaning of the phrase.

Mike had, perhaps, not fully appreciated this capacity of Psmith's, until Psmith began by degrees to fail to exercise it.

Mike spoke of close games, wickets intently besieged. Psmith hummed absently. Mike shared scores, and described the key batting runs that had helped determine them. Psmith nodded, and ate. Mike turned in desperation to the relative conditions of American cricket pitches. Psmith glanced round the restaurant, and offered a response, amiable in tone, whose content nevertheless made it clear that the bulk of Mike's meaning had escaped him.

Approaching a precipice of increasingly intense discomfort, so much depends upon one's reception. The clumsy or agitated speaker, granted a patient, attentive, and circumspect listener, may gain sufficient confidence to make a decent showing of it. But give him a restless and visibly displeased audience, and he is lost.

Mike stumbled. Self-consciousness was unfamiliar to him; he could not navigate its shores with grace. He was not used to having to make such an effort to be heard by Psmith. He had seen Psmith dignified and dismissive before, but it was not a weapon that had ever been turned on him.

"Yes, well, cricket is all very well and good, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith at last, with a vaguely benevolent air. "But surely there must be _something_ else you have to talk about?"

This was undoubtedly the case. But at the question, spoken in such a kindly and well-meaning tone as to be thoroughly debilitating, alternate topics fled. Mike could not lay hands on them. He sat there, hot-faced, rendered utterly mute, with a dull unhappy squirming in the pit of his stomach that suggested his lunch was considering some form of rebellion.

It was true that Psmith had never had Mike's devotion to cricket. He did not love it, and would not have made a life of it, given the option. But he liked it well enough, and he was good at it, when he chose to be. He had never seemed bored by it before.

He had never seemed bored by _Mike_ before.

"Sorry," said Mike, half meaning it and half resentful, bewildered, unsure whether he had misstepped or Psmith had. "Had my head stuffed full of it for weeks. Tell us about New York, then."

His discomfort, ungovernable, made the invitation sound grudging. Psmith seemed not to notice; Mike could not decide whether to be grateful for it, or to resent his apparent unconcern more deeply still.

Mike's plate had not yet been emptied. But his appetite was irretrievably gone.

Matters had not improved by the time they parted.

Mike returned to the hotel where the team had taken rooms. He had meant to inquire about the matter of the Fourth Avenue flat Psmith was to have taken on in his absence, but the circumstances of their luncheon had rendered that topic an impossible one to broach. Therefore, for the moment, Mike's lodging remained with the team. In his present mood, this fact, too, grated. He was reminded anew that he had been divided from an occupation he would otherwise have greatly enjoyed. The only prospect for company that was not Psmith's was the team's. But the thought of joining them for supper when they were cheery and fresh from a match he had been unable to participate in was not an appealing one in the least.

He was frustrated at every turn. There was no solace to be had in cricket, or in the companionship of his teammates—and the trusted refuge of Psmith, to which he had expected to be able to turn, had failed to harbor him. He felt stung, and deeply so.

More deeply, perhaps, than was entirely reasonable. And that impression could not help but trouble him further still, with a lingering guilty unease that would not fade.

He did not like to think about why. But he knew.

It was the trip over with the team that had done it. At Cambridge, Mike and Psmith had settled in together as readily as ever they had at good old Sedleigh, and Mike had not thought twice about it. It was merely the way of things. They roomed together, and spent all day together, and were rarely without each other; Psmith's presence brought with it sunshine, no matter the weather, and Mike thought often, late at night, warm and drowsy, of Psmith—of his long narrow face, his bright eyes, his clever fingers.

It had all seemed quite usual, and Mike had questioned neither the facts nor himself. Not until Psmith had neatly invited himself along with the M.C.C.

Nobody had said anything to Psmith, who had had precisely the same effect on the cricket team that he had on everyone: those who were apt to be charmed and amused were charmed and amused, and those who were apt to disdain were thwarted at every possible turn and left to fester impotently.

It was Mike who had been faced with all the knowing looks and teasing nudges, whenever the team were alone together. It was Mike who had had to try to explain Psmith, and himself, and himself and Psmith—and it was Mike who had been forced to discover that 'friend' felt insupportably insufficient, and 'confidential secretary and adviser' would not cut it.

He had not said a word about it to Psmith during the journey over. It seemed too blatant and obvious a misstep to make, to lay such a matter out before Psmith and invite him to look it over at his leisure. Even to think of such a thing made Mike go hot and cold by turns. As a rule, he was not given to heady flights of introspection. But he possessed sufficient self-awareness to perceive that here, somewhere within the murk of his struggles to define the exact extent of his regard for Psmith, was something that lay painfully close to the bone, something far too tender and raw to bear the penetrating gaze of Psmith's eye-glass.

He would avoid all danger. He was determined on that point. But he remained helplessly conscious of his own raw and newly discovered sentiment; the knowledge haunted him relentlessly. He endeavored for the first time in memory to keep a secret from Psmith, and it wore on him without surcease. And now, as if that had not been enough in itself, a cloud that loomed darker still seemed poised upon his horizon.

His hotel room was pleasant, well-appointed. It did not cheer him. He sat on the edge of his bed, and looked out the nearest window, and saw nothing.

After some time, the light changed. He roused himself. The thought of a full supper did not appeal. He went out and around the corner, bought himself some bread and cheese, and returned. It suited his present frame of mind, in all its grim simmering unhappiness, to eat lightly, and alone.

The bread was soft, the cheese well-flavored. A pleasant surprise, at the end of a day during which all other surprises had not been. Mike's room faced west; his view of the sunset was fine. The sharpest edge of his discontent was blunted despite itself.

He began to feel a little foolish. Luncheon had been unpleasant. There was no pretending otherwise. But perhaps that was only natural. They had been apart for longer than ever before in all the span of their acquaintance; was it not reasonable that it should take time for them to resume the habits and rhythms they took on in each other's company, having been without them?

Mike sat and thought the matter over. Resolve built. He would be rational. He would be fair. Psmith's disinterest had cut him deeply, but Psmith could not have known how deeply, nor why, and Mike was determined that he should not get wind of the reason if at all possible. So, the wound must be concealed. Psmith would not learn of it. Mike would present an untroubled and amiable front, and if on the morrow Psmith were moved to mention that he had been quite distracted, or that he felt he had done Mike any disservice, Mike would smile and urge him to forget all about it, and they would carry on in tranquility.

All would be well, Mike decided, and went to sleep that evening comforted and light of heart.

* * *

Psmith was not, as it turned out, inclined in any way to propose to make amends for anything out of the ordinary having occurred.

Quite the contrary. He escalated.

He understood that the measures necessary to remove Mike cleanly from all involvement in his affairs must mount inexorably, relentlessly. He could not waver. There must be no relief. Mike was stubborn, but he had a temper. Psmith must provoke it, and with enough intensity that Mike would not readily forgive him; and he must do it with dedication and alacrity, before any new mishaps could be arranged for Mike. It would work, if done with sufficient care.

It must. No other outcome was tolerable.

To Mike, it was unfathomable. It was excruciating. He could not account for it. Psmith had never before demonstrated such placidly impenetrable disinterest in Mike and in all he wished to say or do. Mike perceived a gradual but undeniable decrease in the temperature of Psmith's greetings and choice of address. "Comrade Jackson" had never before been said to him with such languidly chilly indifference.

He had no idea what to do. He began to wish the problem were as simple, as straightforward, as a sprained wrist. He did not like that cricket had been taken from him, but at the very least he understood why, and knew that time would set him right. The same could not be said of whatever it was that was steadily picking apart the seams of all that bound him in friendship to Psmith.

He alternated between withdrawing in baffled unhappiness to make himself scarce, and lurking within the office of _Cosy Moments_ like a particularly fit and sun-browned specter, condemned to haunt it for an undefined term. He had begun to feel so thoroughly unwelcome in Psmith's company that it abashed him to persist, and yet a mute and truculent spirit of defiance refused to be fully quelled. Something within him insisted that if Psmith was finished with him, then it must be said to his face, a clean and irrefutable break. Nothing less could send him away for good.

He essayed to speak of it only once, and the attempt would not be repeated.

It had been less than a week. The intensity of Psmith's campaign had made itself deeply felt. Mike was miserable. He had come to see Psmith already aware of the reception he was likely to enjoy; Psmith's disinterested glance and tepid greeting, as one who perceives a tenth serving of stale pudding set before him after having politely pretended not to notice the first nine, had struck Mike no less painfully for that foreknowledge.

"Psmith, what on earth is _wrong_?" he asked, when he could not prevent the question's egress any longer.

Psmith looked up. He had been intently studying an edition of _Cosy Moments_ —one that predated his tenure as a member of the editorial staff, as if he meant to make it inescapably clear that he preferred even the strikingly dubious efforts of B. Henderson Asher to making conversation with Mike.

"Goodness," he murmured. "What has provoked this unseemly outburst, Comrade Jackson? I find myself entirely at a loss."

"You're joking," said Mike.

Psmith's eyebrows rose. "Surely a jest would be singularly inappropriate, in the face of what I can only interpret as some previously unspoken distress. I cannot fathom it, it is insupportable. You are in a truly incomprehensible mood, Comrade Jackson."

Mike was incredulous. Words were insufficient. He stared.

He had accepted the reality of the apparent alteration in Psmith's sentiments toward him, though he could not account for it. All week long, alone in his lodgings in the depths of night, he had lain in his bed and imagined a wide and painful variety of potential rationales, each a more profound wound than the last.

It had not once occurred to him that Psmith might claim none of them—might profess perfect ignorance, as though to him no meaningful change were in evidence.

"I suppose," allowed Psmith after a moment's contemplation, "I have been more than usually inattentive. But I should hope to think it excusable, considering the ponderous burden of employment I now bear."

He had been seated for at least an hour, engaged in no activity more taxing than idly flipping the pages of _Cosy Moments_. Mike was bewildered. An indignant spark was on the verge of catching light amidst the tinder of his bafflement.

Psmith extinguished it neatly a moment later.

"Then again, I am aware your hours are not so full as mine, Comrade Jackson. What a pity it is that you have no better way to spend them than loitering here."

Mike felt submerged in ice water. For a moment, he could not breathe.

"Just so," he agreed quietly, when he was able.

He did not look up, and he did not speak again. Psmith shook out the paper he had been reading, and turned a page, and sat back in his chair with an absent hum, the picture of blithe unconcern.

In truth, however, Psmith was deeply troubled.

He had had a plan. It had all seemed quite straightforward. Mike was kind, and loyal, and stalwart; but surely he would tire quickly of being treated with such callous disregard, such blatant discourtesy. He had always demonstrated a remarkable degree of patience for Psmith's quirks and foibles. But that patience must run out. Psmith had intended to ensure it.

He had not anticipated this sort of resistance. He had made himself approximately as unpleasant to be around as he knew how, in a manner directly tailored to the target of his efforts, and with a cool dedication that was proportional to his own excessively powerful attachment to Mike. Always the reminder was there, in the form of the clean white wrappings that encircled Mike's injured wrist. Psmith would not—he could not—forget the reason why this must be accomplished. It loomed large in his thoughts at every moment.

He had gone to see Bat Jarvis, that eminent feline connoisseur, a day later than intended, since he could not go while Mike was anywhere near him. Psmith had believed himself successful, when he had seen neither hide nor hair of Mike the next morning—Bat Jarvis and his erstwhile companion, Long Otto, had come instead, and had courteously driven a handful of uninvited guests from Psmith's threshold.

But then Mike had come back. Again, and again. Psmith had been forced to press the issue harder still. He sensed with innate perspicacity that this matter of the tenements was coming to a head, that it could not be much longer now before some sort of stand must be made; and Mike could not be present for it. Every inch of Psmith rebelled at the idea. To put himself in danger, when he had decided himself upon the point, was all very well and good. But not Mike.

He sat and looked deep into the pages of _Cosy Moments_ , and read not a word. His mind was occupied with another afternoon, long ago and far away. A shoe, with a splash of red paint upon it, and the lengths that had been undertaken to spare its owner unhappiness. At the time, it had felt monumentous, gravely important: the highest of stakes that ever man and Destiny had wagered. Psmith knew better now.

Action was the thing, he reminded himself. That was the cry. He must channel the spirit and dynamism of Long Otto, and take matters in hand.

He looked up at Mike, tucked miserably into the corner of the office, the flush of what Psmith felt was surely a deep and mounting frustration still visible upon his cheek.

"See here, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith aloud, in a pleasantly impersonal tone.

Mike did not move. He stood with shoulders hunched, hot and unhappy. Psmith must regard this attitude as a victory: Mike was not pleased to hear Psmith speak; he knew it must hold some fresh insult.

He would be angry with Psmith. He might well despise Psmith. Either avenue, or both, would prove entirely acceptable, as long as he remained alive to pursue them.

"I have been a model of hospitality, have I not? I have been patient beyond the wildest dreams of men. The whisper is passed along the streets: 'the generosity of Psmith knows no bounds!' But enough is enough, you must agree. Make no mistake, it does my heart good to think I have provided you some solace, some small entertainment or diversion, in your hour of need. Still— _must_ you hang about in this relentless manner?"

Mike looked at him, and then away. He swallowed; the hard convulsive movement of his throat was visible.

"You'd like me to go," he said, very softly.

"As always," said Psmith, with a bright hard warmth that tasted like bile on his tongue, "you have captured the essence of my meaning, Comrade Jackson! You have struck the very heart of the matter, with your characteristic keen simplicity. You have touched the spot. Like a gargoyle, you loom over the proceedings; you cast a pall that shatters all peace. On the strength of our former friendship—"

Mike shut his eyes. "Former," he repeated, more softly still.

Psmith had steeled himself. To falter now would be to render all the excruciating labor to which he had bent his efforts these past days to ash.

"In times now past, we got on swimmingly," he allowed, with cool disinterest. "It cannot be denied. But New York has altered me, Comrade Jackson. I am afire, I am consumed. I am on the trail of bigger and better things. I must be guided by the example of the butterfly, that dapple-winged debonair, and leave the dull, drear chrysalis of idle youth," and here he gave Mike a sweeping, pointed look that made his meaning all too clear, "far behind me."

At this juncture, Psmith was prepared for a good many responses. He was prepared for Mike to shout at him. He was prepared to be scorned for all that he had said and done, for Mike to take umbrage and storm out, swearing never to speak to him again if he was going to be such a rotter. He was even prepared to be struck, feeling full well that he had been more than cruel enough to warrant it.

Mike did not do any of those things.

The reason was simple. Mike did not _want_ to do any of those things. He felt strange and numb and tired. The truth was out, now. Psmith had said it, as Mike had declared to himself it would have to be said before he would accept it, no matter how clear the unstated sentiment had seemed.

Psmith was tired of him. Psmith wished to be rid of him. Psmith was clever, eloquent, persuasive; even if Mike had had an argument to hand that seemed meaningful in the face of Psmith's dismissal, he knew he could not have made it stand firm in the face of whatever counterpoints Psmith would bring to bear against it.

He had lost. He had lost and he did not even know why the battle had been brought, what had been the point of contention or whence it had arisen.

"All right," he said to Psmith dully. "All right. I'll let you be, then."

He turned away. His eyes felt hot; they burned and stung. He dashed at them absently with the back of one hand, and left.

* * *

Mike did not know what to do with himself.

It was not that he did not remember a time before Psmith. Happy days at Wrykyn when he had not yet heard the name, when he had had no concept that there was such a place as Sedleigh or such a person as Psmith—these he could recall with relative ease.

But it had been so long. That Mike seemed far away, a stranger, unreachably distant.

Mike had, on occasion, been moved to ponder the beginning of his acquaintance with Psmith. What a seemingly insignificant encounter it was that had given him a companion through the rest of his school days, during that awkward frustrating period at the bank, and at Cambridge—that had given him Cambridge itself, which would not have been his but for Psmith's ready generosity.

He had never been able to account for it, not really. He had never been able to divine what it was that had made Psmith seize upon him and propose the joint collaring of a study. It had been carrying out that first successful campaign together, shoulder to shoulder, that had settled matters—that had made it clear to them both that they got on, and were well-suited, and would indeed prove able to share both a study and a dormitory room in a spirit of congenial fraternity.

Psmith had _chosen_ Mike. That was all Mike had ever been able to make of it. He had chosen Mike, on one of his charmingly inexplicable whims, suddenly and inexorably; and thus it was that out of all the boys at Sedleigh, it had been Mike who had been showered with Psmith's attention and consideration, with Psmith's company and regard and undeniably excessive compliments.

If only Mike had earned any of it, perhaps he would have had some grounds to object to its withdrawal. If he had been clever, or interesting, or exceptional in some way that did not have anything to do with blasted cricket—but alas, he had never perceived himself in such a way, and felt he could hardly expect Psmith to do so.

So, in the end, it was all quite simple. Psmith had chosen him, once, for reasons Mike could not hope to fathom, and now _un_ -chose him in the same manner. And, as there had been nothing to be done about the one, the decision entirely removed from Mike's power, so there was equally little to be done about the other.

He walked. He had some vague idea of returning to his hotel, and yet could not summon the clarity of mind to choose the most direct route. He walked, and tried to grow used to the cold quiet feeling that filled him.

And then, just as he had stepped forward with the intention of crossing a street, a man stopped him. A man with a clean-shaven face, a smooth cat-like way about him, and beautifully shining boots.

A man who wore a dark coat, with tails, and a singularly tall hat.

Mike blinked at the fellow, and then down at the hand he had set quite firmly against Mike's chest. Blank with surprise, he allowed himself to be moved nearly the length of a stride, backward rather than forward; then it occurred to him that behind him was a wall, and perhaps half a dozen feet distant, an alleyway, and that it might not be entirely to his benefit if this man were able to back him up into one or the other.

He stopped. For all that it had felt like the better part of a decade, he had not been parted from cricket for more than a week yet. He was hale, and in fine trim. The man stopped also, and though the pressure of the hand increased briefly, Mike had no trouble holding his ground.

"Your friend," said the man to him quietly, "is exceedingly stubborn, Mr. Jackson."

He referred to Psmith. There was no doubt in Mike's mind. The cricket team was all very well and good, but Mike had only one friend deserving of such singular treatment in the city of New York, even if that friend would no longer claim Mike as such in turn.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Mike.

"Oh, I believe you do," said the man. "Opportunities have been offered to him. He has refused them. They won't be offered again. He's got to quit this nonsense, understand? He's got to quit it. Either he'll see sense and do it himself, or he'll be made to. And you'll do the same, if you know what's good for you. Next time—it'll be more than just a sprain."

The man reached out and tapped Mike's bad wrist once, a sharp little knock that set the nerves twanging in protest. He drew away before Mike could make him, released Mike entirely and turned aside, and in another moment he was lost among the great jostling flow of humanity, passing to and fro along the street corner.

Mike stood there, stunned. Abruptly a great sweeping transformation passed across his internal landscape, the dim gray chill of helpless ignorance traded for the brilliant blaze of enlightenment, a sudden and unstoppable thaw.

Mike did not understand everything, but he understood enough. There was some game afoot here. Psmith must know of it. Psmith must know of it, and had not shared said knowledge with Mike. It had been deliberate. And Mike's wrist, the accident on the platform: a man in a long dark coat. Who had also borne what had been, upon reflection, a rather tall hat.

Mike thought immediately of how strange Psmith had been, when Mike had told him about it. How pleased Psmith had seemed to see him, he could not help but recall—entirely the welcome Mike had anticipated. It had only been after, after Psmith had questioned him thoroughly, had given no explanation for his strange preoccupation, that they had gone to luncheon and Psmith had begun by unmistakable degrees to lose all interest in him.

Had begun by unmistakable degrees to _appear_ to lose all interest in him.

Mike bit his lip.

It was possible. It had to be possible. Perhaps Psmith had tired of him after all, and wanted no more to do with him; but perhaps not. Even in the first case, now that Mike grasped that some grave danger dogged Psmith's heels, he could not stand idly by. And in the second case, he perceived a glimmer of hope. Psmith characteristically undertook dramatic lengths to accomplish what he deemed worthwhile. In the past, that had on more than one occasion included getting Mike clear of a jam—getting Mike clear of a jam while wedging himself the more firmly into it in Mike's place, at that.

When he did things like that, he did not like to tell Mike about it. He did not even like to let on he had done it at all, no matter how obvious it became to Mike. _You wrong me. You make me writhe. I'm surprised at you_ —as if Mike had leveled some dastardly accusation at him, when Mike had only meant to say he understood what Psmith had been about, and had wanted to thank him for it. Psmith had prevaricated, he had obfuscated, he had talked in circles. He had made himself dead difficult in every respect.

And that had been over a painted dog. Very plausible indeed that he should go proportionately further over a matter of life and limb. And of course he would never say a word to let on, if he was in trouble or somebody had it in for him. He did everything himself, or tried to. Even when he should not, and had to know as much, the dolt.

The man in the coat and hat and shining shoes was no longer visible to Mike. But in the moment he had departed, he had turned in such a way as to proceed along the street in approximately the opposite direction Mike had been walking—which was to say towards the office of _Cosy Moments_. Mike could no longer perceive his apparent choice of direction as chance or coincidence.

Mike drew a quick breath, and turned on his heel, and began to walk.

He was too late.

Not drastically. Not unforgivably. Just enough.

He had not spent as much time in silent, stunned contemplation on that street corner as he would shortly begin to fear. The facts were these: Mr. Francis Parker understood with clarity the shortest route that lay between himself and his destination, and, in the habit of the native New Yorker, was a brisk walker at his slowest, especially when he undertook to pursue a matter he knew to be of great importance. Mike was hampered by his unfamiliarity with the city—and made up much of the difference by his intense and single-minded determination, a quality which transferred itself to his stride. He should have been later than he was.

But even if he had understood this, it would not have been enough to soothe him.

He reached the street that was his destination at approximately the hour at which the office of _Cosy Moments_ would close for business. He glanced behind himself, and then ahead. He perceived, among the pedestrians in the middle distance, two figures. The one that caught the eye directly wore a markedly tall hat.

The other, by its manner, its motions, its carriage, was identifiable to Mike with an instant's observation. It was Psmith.

Psmith, and Mr. Parker, though Mike knew him only as the stranger with the firm hand and the shining shoes.

Mike hurried closer. The two figures approached a taximeter-cab at the edge of the pavement, a few yards along the street. Psmith, hardly seeming aware of his companion, got in. Mike felt a moment's intense relief.

And then the second figure caught the door before it had closed, and pressed its way within.

Mike was not nearly close enough to prevent it. A shout was strangled in his tight throat. The cab began to move, and sense returned to him: even at the lofty heights of fitness he currently enjoyed, he could not keep pace on foot. He turned on his heel and cast a desperate glance over the street. Some yards distant, he caught sight of a second taximeter-cab, sitting idle while its owner exchanged words with some acquaintance who leaned down to speak from the pavement.

Mike struck out with haste, and inside half a minute was knocking speedily upon the window. "Please, sir. Please, I apologize for the interruption, but I'm in a dreadful rush."

The cab driver eyed him up and down. Mike became aware that he looked rather more flustered and disorderly than was his habit. He shoved a hand into his pocket, and withdrew what he knew must be bills enough to cover quite a journey.

"All right, all right," said the driver, not unkindly. "Get in."

Mike got.

"Up the street, there's another cab that just pulled away. That one there—see? Follow it, please. Quickly. There isn't any time to waste."

* * *

They could not stay close on the other cab's tail.

Mike wanted to. He wanted to very badly. Visions of drawing level, of clambering from the passenger side window and throwing himself bodily upon the cab that held Psmith, could not help but flurry their impetuous way through his anxious brain.

But sense took hold shortly. The stranger with the shining shoes had not merely accosted Psmith on the street, but was taking Psmith somewhere. Therefore, Psmith was presumably the safest he could presently be, as long as the cab remained in motion. When it slowed to a stop—that would be the moment requiring swift, decisive action.

The first cab carried on. The second cab followed. Manhattan Island was left behind. Mike was forced to ask his driver to fall back, as the traffic around them thinned out. He did not think it would constitute a positive development, were the stranger with the shining shoes to perceive that he was being tailed.

The buildings along the roadway diminished in size and frequency. They were approaching the open countryside.

A day earlier, pure coincidence might have brought additional players to the stage. Kid Brady had begun training for his upcoming match a little way outside the city, and that training included a run along this very road. All it would have taken was a simple and straightforward incident—a burst tyre, perhaps—and Mike's intercession would not have been necessary.

But Psmith had taken steps to avoid entangling Mike in his affairs, and one of those steps had been to delay speaking to Bat Jarvis, thereby also delaying the ensuing provocations that had brought Mr. Parker to his doorstep. It was not a day earlier. There was no burst tyre. And even if there had been, replacement would have proceeded smoothly, without interruption.

Instead, Mike leaned forward in his seat, squinting and straining. He glimpsed some alteration in the trajectory of the distant cab ahead, though he could not conclusively identify the reason for it. His heart pounded with relentless intensity.

Mike urged his cab's driver onward. The other cab grew larger. It had stopped, Mike realized, pulled to the side of the roadway and left there. Mike did not wait for his own vehicle to come to a stop before exiting with alacrity, and ascertained upon a single swift glance that Psmith was no longer in the vicinity. The other cab was empty.

The other cab was empty, and there was a small dark spatter of blood upon the interior of the rear passenger door, and the same window.

"Here, now," said the driver of Mike's cab, who was a sensible man and did not like the look of any of this.

Mike did not heed. The edge of the road was all brush, which gave way readily to a field, not lately mown, and then a deeper, taller stretch of brush, a few irregular stands of trees.

The sward was visibly disordered. It was in this direction, Mike intuited, that Psmith had been taken by the stranger with the shining shoes.

Mike tossed another pair of bills the driver's way, insisted that he remain precisely where he was until Mike returned, and set out in hot pursuit.

He did not have far to go.

Psmith, Mr. Parker, and Mr. Parker's driver had only ventured far enough to avoid being spotted from the roadway. 

Uninterrupted, Psmith had discerned that he possessed no clear advantage but would possess even less once the car had come to a stop. With the driver's attention no longer occupied by the execution of his trade, he would presumably join the proceedings that were to follow. Thus, when the car had begun to slow—when Mr. Parker had been occupied in issuing direction to the driver, and his attention had therefore wavered—Psmith took his chance.

He was not successful.

Which is not to say his efforts went entirely unrewarded. He landed Mr. Parker a jarring blow just under the angle of the jaw, which shook Mr. Parker's nerves as thoroughly as his teeth. But Mr. Parker's attention returned to him in time to prevent Psmith's simultaneous grip upon his wrist from having the desired effect, and when his hand tightened upon the revolver within it, a shot was fired.

Psmith had never been shot before. He found he could not recommend the experience.

After the first blazing impact of the injury eased, he discovered he was pressed back, breath caught in his throat, against the passenger door. The wound, judging by the approximate location of the hottest screaming of his nerves, was in his arm. It would not kill him.

The same could not be said of Mr. Parker.

Mr. Parker forced him from the cab in a rush of cold fury. Psmith felt peculiar. He was light-headed. He stumbled once, again, though the ground was not sufficiently uneven to warrant it. A disproportionate share of his attention seemed firmly riveted to his arm, to the sensation of blood spilling across his skin, soaking through his sleeve, though precision in these observations could not do him the least good at this juncture. He was dimly surprised at himself for succumbing to this pointless but apparently ungovernable fixation.

He was guided away from the road. The sky was clear. The sun felt hot against his neck. Irrelevancies simply would not stop piling themselves up, pressing in upon his consciousness.

Mr. Parker yanked him to a stop, and, with a vicious twist of Psmith’s uninjured arm, a kick to the back of his legs, forced him to his knees. Psmith spared a moment to mourn the inevitable consequences to his trousers. Tragedy compounded, and with such ruthlessness—painful indeed.

The mouth of Mr. Parker's revolver did not feel as cold as Psmith had expected, pressed up against the back of his head.

And then Mike arrived.

He had the advantage of surprise, and in motion possessed all the thwarted energy of a habitually active man who has been sunk in a mental and emotional quagmire for the better part of a week. Mr. Parker had approximately as much time as he needed to startle, and to turn his head toward the interloper—which gave Mike the clearest shot at him that could possibly have been desired.

Mike struck him with all the righteous fury a highly skilled batter's off arm could bring to bear. The effect upon Mr. Parker was not unlike that which might be expected had he been hit with a large brick. His reflexive response, in the instant before he toppled, resulted in a deafening report from the revolver; but he had already been half-turned, his aim no longer directed toward Psmith but not yet directed fully toward Mike, and the bullet lodged harmlessly in a nearby tree.

In the grip of intense urgency, Mike had paid no heed to the other party in attendance. Happily, the effect of this abrupt and dramatic display upon the driver of Mr. Parker's taximeter-cab was not inconsiderable. He was a pragmatic sort, and willing enough to undertake a small errand for the fee Mr. Parker had offered him. To drive to a destination and deliver a passenger was not unsettling to his nerves.

He had not, however, been prepared to be asked to join Mr. Parker in permanently disposing of said passenger. Mr. Parker had insisted, and Mr. Parker had a revolver; a compromise had inexorably been reached. But he had not embraced the spirit of the thing. He had already been shifting anxiously with vague thoughts of perhaps proceeding as far as turning his back. He wished to be able to say, if questioned, that he had done what he was told and no more, and had seen nothing.

Mike's sudden appearance and indubitable prowess made a distinct impression. Mike's blood was up; he came to the hazy understanding that there was yet another party present, and rounded on this additional actor without hesitation.

"No need, no need, sir!" yelped the driver. "Begging your pardon, sir!" and he was off at once, brimming with gratitude that Mr. Parker had at least paid half up front, and the day need not be written off as a loss.

Mike forced himself to account for the revolver, and to take it in hand. Should the stranger with the shining shoes come to, he would not find it in his possession. 

But then at last he permitted himself to reach for Psmith—who yet knelt, blinking up at Mike with a hazy uncertain look, bleeding steadily.

His eye-glass was gone. Mike understood that it must simply have been knocked free, but the effect its loss worked upon him was undeniable. His eyes ached hotly. His breath caught in his throat.

"Psmith," he said, when he was able.

"Intolerable," said Psmith. "Absolutely intolerable. An outrage. What do you mean by this impertinence, Comrade Jackson? What do you mean by ..." He blinked, and swallowed rapidly. Mike read these signs correctly, and had a strong arm about him even before he had wavered. "The sheer audacity," concluded Psmith weakly. "It cannot be borne. Your presence here insults me, I shan't have it."

"All right," said Mike to him gently, and brought his uninjured arm up so as to fit it across Mike's own shoulders.

"You weren't meant to be here," said Psmith.

"So I gather," said Mike. "Come on. I've got you."

* * *

Psmith was levered to his feet, and assisted in traversing the distance to the second cab successfully. The eminently deserving Mr. Parker was left where he lay, and Mike perceived, upon returning to the roadside, that the first cab had gone, the driver having chosen to demonstrate the better part of valor and make himself scarce.

Mike bound up Psmith's arm as neatly as he could. The bullet, it seemed, was not lodged therein, but rather had carved a deep and bloody crease. Psmith muttered disavowals of the necessity for such nannying at intervals, but did not seem to possess the wherewithal to stop him.

Psmith had, it became apparent, completed the necessary negotiations to let the Fourth Avenue flat above the saloon. Mike had not previously been inclined to press the matter: it had seemed unbearably likely that Psmith had abandoned all plans made for the two of them together, and had instead secured lodging for himself alone. It made a helpless warmth bloom in Mike's chest to learn that this grim surmise had been baseless after all.

A doctor was called, and came with all due promptness. He seemed more surprised by Psmith's dress and manner than by the gunshot wound. The bleeding had already begun, reassuringly, to slow. The injury was cleaned properly, closed up neatly, and bandaged; Mike was left with strict instructions for the care of the patient, whom he was assured would do quite well with food and rest until a followup evaluation should occur.

Psmith seemed to have anticipated this directive. Left alone while Mike and the doctor had conferred in the front room, he had gone quiet, and Mike returned to find him sleeping soundly.

Mike did not regret the opportunity to engage in observation without being observed in turn. Some of the color had returned to Psmith's face, he was glad to see. He sat close, and wound his hands together in his lap so he would not do anything he should not. For he sensed the inclination within himself to tip irreversibly across a precipice.

It had been stirred up closer to the surface than usual. That was all. The prospect of Psmith's loss, first in one respect and then in another, approaching in such unprecedented proximity—of course it had shaken him. But he would be sensible. He would be restrained. He would demand to know what Psmith had been thinking, pulling such a strange, cruel trick just to try to make Mike leave him. He would make Psmith understand that it was not to be repeated, that he must never again get himself into such a scrape without giving Mike leave to get him out of it.

Psmith eventually shifted a little. Mike waited. Psmith sighed, and twitched his brows into something that was not quite a frown. Mike waited.

And then, at last, Psmith blinked his eyes open.

"Comrade Jackson," he said, and sniffed. "What a trying surprise."

"Quit it with that rot," said Mike. "There's no point anymore. I know."

Psmith looked at him assessingly. Psmith's memory of the past hour or two was not its usual pristinely detailed self, but he recalled enough to judge that Mike's statement was essentially correct. Mike remained in ignorance of certain specifics. But he could not have failed to grasp that some manner of trouble had brewed itself up, and that Psmith was in the thick of it.

There was a certain irony detectable to him in the possibility that all his efforts to drive Mike to a safe distance might have failed, only for Mike to throw him over now in fury that the attempt had been made at all.

It was not too dear a cost. He had decided that at the beginning. But he had, he supposed, still hoped he might not be made to pay it.

Alas.

He desired some modicum of dignity. That was what was called for. He pushed himself up among his pillows as best he could, one-armed.

Mike loosed a frustrated sort of breath from between his teeth, and reached for Psmith, and helped him.

Psmith refused categorically to treat this as significant, and ruthlessly ignored the hopeful thump of his heart in his chest.

"Look here," said Mike. "I know what you were doing. I understand now. But you mustn't. You mustn't ever again. Do you hear?"

He stopped. He had spoken harshly, flatly; his voice had come thick from his throat. As they had ever tended to do at the times when he needed them most, words were failing him. He felt choked by vast emotion, to an almost physical degree, and yet he could not seem to get it out where it would show itself in a way that would leave any meaningful impression upon Psmith.

He _wanted_ to leave a meaningful impression upon Psmith. He wanted Psmith to understand how thoroughly dreadful this had all been, how entirely it had wrung him out. He remained wracked at intervals by the awareness that if he had been but two minutes later reaching the office of _Cosy Moments_ , if he had not seen Psmith and the unlamented Mr. Parker depart in that taximeter-cab, Psmith might even now be lying in a copse, shot through the back of the head, with Mike himself sitting in his hotel like a lump and no idea where to look for him.

The reality had been averted. But even the idea of it in the hypothetical was unbearable. Mike could not speak of it. He surged from his chair, paced the length of the bed in which Psmith lay and came back again. His hands were clenched up in fists, aching at the knuckles, and he could not unclench them.

"Oh, come now, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith, very cool. "This shocking agitation is unnecessary. You were in a jolly tight corner, though you couldn't have known it, and as I recall that is not a situation in which it pleases you to find yourself. I essayed to resolve the issue; you trampled the delicate machinery of strategy to smithereens. I cannot help but feel that of the two of us, it is I who deserve a moment to pace in frustration."

"You!" cried Mike, incensed. "You! _You_ should have known better, if you had an ounce of sense in your head. You should never have tried to make me go at all."

The precipice was there. Mike teetered helplessly upon its edge, heart pounding furiously, eyes wet.

"Shouldn't I?" inquired Psmith, dusting a bit of imaginary lint from the blankets that covered him. "I must allow you were exceedingly uncooperative. I hadn't expected to be required to go to such lengths to dislodge you; it was something of a puzzle."

It had not been one upon which he had allowed himself to linger overmuch. He knew himself too well to think he was immune to the temptation to attribute the relentless steady patience of Mike's attachment to an impossible cause. It had been a constant struggle for Psmith; he had had to forbid himself very firmly to derive any gratification from Mike's remarkably determined refusal to give up on him, even when he had done all he could to insist on it.

But he was not about to say so to Mike.

Mike, meanwhile, was all too aware that there was no puzzle—that the answer was, in fact, the simplest it could possibly be.

" _Was_ it," he spat, and leapt at last: caught Psmith by the chin where he lay, and bent down over him, and kissed him.

It was a hard kiss, a fierce kiss, but not a lengthy one. Here, Mike could not help thinking, was the impression he had longed to leave, the impression words could not make for him. But his expectations were so low as to be nonexistent. He kept his mouth pressed to Psmith's for time enough to feel Psmith go still beneath him, to be certain that Psmith felt and understood what he had done. And then he withdrew.

He fought the urge to cover his mouth with his hand, to make apologies. He had done it; he would own it. Action, in all its indelible force, suited Mike better than contemplation. And for all that he had spent a great deal of time and effort endeavoring not to express even a hint of the sentiments that had been behind this particular action, he now wanted nothing more than for Psmith to perceive them, to grasp them in their entirety. All caution, all self-preservation, had crumbled to dust in the face of the necessity that Psmith be made aware of the crucial flaw in his idiotic plan, and never again undertake such a course.

Psmith was staring at him. Psmith's mouth had reddened; Mike had not meant to look at it, but had, and forced his gaze away again.

"Mike," said Psmith.

Mike made himself look up.

Psmith cleared his throat, and reached as if to adjust his eye-glass before visibly coming to the realization that it was absent. "If I," he said, and then cleared his throat again. "If I take your meaning, Comrade Jackson, and I believe that I do, then it appears to me that we are in a singularly advantageous position to come to an understanding."

Mike blinked, and swallowed hard.

"Does it," he said quietly.

"Yes, indeed," asserted Psmith. "For, you see—your reasons for expressing such ferocious displeasure with my stratagem of choice are, I think, identical to my reasons for committing myself so thoroughly to it."

Mike blinked again, throat tight, and fumbled a tentative hand up to cover the back of Psmith's, and did not find himself rebuffed.

"Oh," he said.

"Quite," said Psmith, and turned his hand in Mike's, and clasped their fingers together. "Of course I hope you'll do the sporting thing and forgive me; I was demonstrably not in possession of all the relevant facts, as I'm certain you must now understand."

"Is that so," said Mike.

"Naturally my efforts to pursue the adventure for which I expressed a craving without undue risk to your cricketing career would have taken a different form, had I—"

"Oh, chuck it," said Mike. "You were trying to keep me safe. Wish you'd tried half as hard to look after yourself, you lunatic."

Psmith gave him a betrayed and scandalized look. "What a degrading misapprehension," he mused. "You pain me beyond words, Comrade Jackson, beyond all possibility of coherent expression."

"Then shut it," advised Mike, and reached up to rub a thumb along the line of Psmith's jaw, and gave him another matter with which to occupy his mouth for a little while.


End file.
